


The Seeds of Vengeance

by TristansGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon possession, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/pseuds/TristansGirl





	1. Chapter 1

Dean feels it right away. The sense that something is wrong with his brother.

Earlier they had gone into a diner to grab some lunch and discuss which leads were worth pursuing in the small Wyoming town.

Everything had been normal then. All through lunch, everything had been fine.

But things have changed by the time they climb into their car and drive away. Sam is now silent and still, barely moving at all as he stares out the passenger window.

Dean tries to talk to him, tries several times to start a conversation, but Sam barely responds.

“Hey, you ok, man?” he finally asks, worried now. Sam hasn’t acted like this since the early days after Jessica was killed.

The voice that answers him is low, strained. “Just a headache, that’s all.”

Dean almost goes for the flippant, smart-ass remark, but thinks better of it at the last second. Instead he says, “We’re almost at the motel. You can take something for it there.”

Sam gives a weak nod, not even bothering to turn around and look at his brother.

When they arrive back at the motel, Sam immediately heads for the bathroom, presumably to take some aspirin.

When he comes out less than a minute later, Dean is already at the laptop, clicking away furiously as he hops from link to link in search of clues.

Sam stands over him and calls his name.

Dean’s fingers still as he looks up. “Feeling better?”

“There’s something I need to show you.”

“Ok,” Dean says slowly, his gaze shifting around the room to see what Sam could be talking about.

When he looks back up, Sam is smiling at him. Which, in and of itself, is not that unusual. What is unusual is that Sam’s eyes are now the color of gleaming gold.

Instinct forces him to rise, moves his arm up to attack.

But it is too late.

Sam has moved first. He has moved hard and fast.

And the last thing that Dean sees for a very long time is Sam’s first coming right for his face.

When Dean wakes up, it is to pain, darkness and confusion.

After a moment, memory kicks in and the confusion fades.

The pain and darkness stay.

The pain is doing its damnedest to take up permanent residence in his head and face. With effort he pushes it aside, forces himself not to think about it so that he can focus on other things, like where the hell he is and what the fuck just happened.

He begins to take stock of the situation, trying to assess. It is dark because he is blindfolded. He is gagged. His hands are bound behind his back. His arms are as well, the rope encircling them just over his elbows, preventing him from getting his arms in front of him. He curses silently, then continues.

His legs are bound at the ankles. His shoes are missing.

And he is bouncing.

The bouncing, along with the muted noise of the road, is what tells him that he is most likely in the trunk of a car. Very possibly his own.

The thought of being shut away in a trunk brings a stab of panic, causes his breath to come in short, little pants.

He tries to calm himself down, knowing that panic is the very worst thing he can do at this moment. He tells himself that he will get out of this. He will get Sammy out of this. They will both get through this and they will laugh about it in a couple of months. They’ll talk about how stupid Sam was to get himself possessed. How careless Dean was to get himself knocked out by his kid brother.

It’ll be a riot.

He’s so busy convincing himself of these things that he doesn’t notice when the car stops. But he does notice the sound of the key being inserted into the trunk’s lock. And he most definitely notices the sound of that trunk being opened.

“Well, well. Look at what we have here. You awake, princess?”

Dean flings a few choice cuss words in Sam’s general direction. Unfortunately the gag reduces everything to inarticulate grunts, stealing his anger and turning it impotent.

The fear returns as he’s lifted up and out of the trunk and hoisted over Sam’s shoulder. Fear because he remembers their last encounter with the demon. He knows how strong it is. He knows what it is capable of.

He breathes through it, trying for calm. Not quite achieving it.

They walk for a long time. Or what seems like a long time - the passage of time becomes meaningless when you’re hung upside down like a slab of meat over your brother’s shoulder.

Eventually they stop and Dean is tossed onto the ground. His first response is to try to get up, but once again the demon inside Sam is faster. He feels his brother’s hands on his face and a moment later, the blindfold is removed. The gag follows, then a moment later, the rope around his ankles is gone as well.

Dean blinks up into the fading afternoon light before looking around to orient himself.

The woods.

They are in the middle of the fucking woods. Dean has never been a big fan of the outdoors, his sense of direction goes to hell when surrounded by too many trees, but even he can tell that they are very far in. Far enough so that no one will hear nor see what is about to happen.

“Hello, Dean. Remember me?” Sam says as he grins down at him.

Dean smirks, makes his voice work despite the dryness in his throat. “Yeah. Last time I saw you, you were leaving that cabin like a scared, little girl.”

The demon inside Sam laughs, and it is so close to Sam’s real laugh that Dean tries to put his hands over his ears to block it.

“Funny. You’re funny, Dean. Last time I saw you, your life’s blood was pooling at my shoes.”

“Are we done playing catch up now? Cause I have places to be.”

Without warning Sam lunges toward him. Dean flinches, instinctively preparing to be struck.

But Sam is merely turning him over, onto his stomach now, and untying the knots that hold his hands and arms. “We haven’t even gotten started,” he says as he works.

Once they’re freed, Dean is turned onto his back. He looks up at Sam, flexes his hands once, and begins to rise. He’s not quite sure yet what he intends to do, but he is certainly not just going to lie here and wait for the bastard’s games to begin.

He has barely moved when a force picks up his body and slams him into the nearest tree. He grunts as his back impacts with the unyielding wood.

“Fuck!”

Sam walks toward him, shaking his head. “Such language. What would your mother say? If I hadn’t sliced her open, that is.”

“Are we going to compare dead family members again? Cause last time I checked . . . I was one up on you, dude.”

The condescending, self-satisfied smile disappears from Sam’s face. “You really should watch your mouth, boy. You shouldn’t antagonize the man that holds all the cards.”

Dean tries not to flinch from the cold hatred in his brother’s eyes. He has to force himself to hold his gaze steady, to not look away.

Why did it have to be you, Sam?

He could have handled anyone else, but not Sam. Not his Sammy. He chokes back the rising despair and forces his voice to take on a nonchalance that he does not feel. “So what, you’re gonna threaten me to death?”

Sam laughs again and saunters over to him, gold eyes flashing in the sun. “You’ve got it all wrong, Dean. I’m not going to kill you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, says nothing.

“This is about vengeance, Dean. Blood vengeance; for my daughter. For my son. And to be honest, you runt bastard, death is a little too good for you.”

Sam stops next to him, placing a hand on Dean’s hip. “There are things worse than death, Dean. And you’re about to find out what some of those are.”

The hand drops away and Sam takes a step backward. “Time for the first lesson, boy.”

While Dean ponders how strange it is to be called ‘boy’ by his younger brother, the first lesson begins. It is, Dean discovers, nothing more than a beating. Not a walk in the park by any means, but it is still something that he can handle. Pain, to a certain degree, can be managed. His father had taught him that very early on. Back then he’d been a seven-year-old with skinned hands and knees and he’d hated his father for it. Now he is an adult and grateful.

When it’s over, he is left hanging from the tree, breath coming harsh and fast, his brow dripping sweat. He’s pretty sure that something, somewhere is broken. But he made it through the entire beating without screaming once. He feels proud of himself. And with pride comes cockiness.

He knows he shouldn’t do it, knows he shouldn’t provoke the thing inside Sam, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

“That’s your fate worse than death?” he asks. “They dish that shit out on the playground, man.”

Sam’s face does not grow angry. If anything, he smiles even wider. “Funny. That defense mechanism of yours. It never grows old.”

Lesson number two finds him with his stomach and face pressed against the tree. He has to admit that this lesson is worse. The branch striking his body hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, the pain too sharp to dismiss quickly. By the time it is over, his face is raw from rubbing against the bark, his back and legs are on fire and his throat is sore from the screaming.

So much for being strong and silent.

For lesson number three he is thrown onto his back on the ground. He groans as newly opened welts meet hard, uneven dirt.

This must be what a rag doll feels like. He swears to himself that when he gets out of this - when he gets himself and Sam out of this - that he will never again be unkind to another doll.

Sam looms over him, blocking out the ever-waning light.

Something in his stance, in the way he tilts his head and chuckles, frightens Dean more than anything else that has happened up until now.

Whatever is going to happen next is going to be bad. Really bad. And he realizes that he is going to have to play nice if he is going to get through this. And he has to get through this - if only to help Sam. It is his only chance.

“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot before.”

“Are you comfortable, Dean?”

He ignores the strange question and plunges on. “I’m sorry about your children, ok? I’m sorry. I...”

“Are you ready?”

He’s about to answer in the negative when Sam unbuckles his belt.

And it is then that he understands. This is the danger that he read in Sam’s body. This is the danger that he read in his father’s body that night in the cabin, before he pissed the demon off so bad that it tried to kill him.

He makes a desperate attempt to get up, straining every muscle, ordering them to move for him. But nothing budges, not even an inch. His legs remain splayed open, his arms remain pinned to the ground above his head

He is trapped. And he has never felt so utterly defenseless.

Sam leans down and begins to unbutton his jeans with long, nimble fingers.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

“I have to,” Sam says as he pulls the pants down over his hips, down to his ankles.

“I said I was sorry. You don’t have to do this.”

“You’re afraid now. I like that.”

Sam kisses him briefly, but there is no heat behind it. It is almost clinical, the way his lips move, the way his tongue pushes its way inside his mouth.

Dean is just about to bite down on that tongue when Sam pulls away and begins to pull down his own jeans.

“You can beg me for death now. If you want.”

And Dean does beg. But not for death. “Sammy, please. Please don’t. Don’t let him do this to me. Not this.”

He had tried begging before, when the demon used his father’s body to slash him open from the inside. He had tried to reach his father then and failed. But that didn’t mean that he would fail this time. This was Sam. This was his baby brother.

His brother would not let this happen.

But Sam only grins. A grin so horrible that Dean actually feels the skin along his arms begin to crawl. “Sammy can’t help you.”

Dean ignores the taunting voice, focusing instead on getting Sam to hear him. Sam is in there, Sam will hear him. He will stop this.

“Sam, fight this. For me. Please.”

“Are you really this naive? After all you’ve seen and done? This isn’t the movies, boy. Your grand love isn’t going to stop me. Do you know why?” He pauses long enough to pull Dean’s underwear out of the way.

“Because Sammy wants this almost as much as I do.”

“No,” he says; voice anguished, broken.

“Oh yeah. I have access to all his thoughts. His memories.” Sam shakes that shaggy head of his. “The things he thinks about when he looks at you. Almost makes me blush.”

“Shut up!” Dean screams, all sense of control gone now. There is no more reason, there is no more pride, no more courage. There is only the moment, and the moment is steeped in despair.

“You know for once, I think you have the right idea. No more talking,” Sam says, pushing forward, face both intent and excited as he tries to enter. He moves slowly, carefully, and for a moment Dean allows himself to believe that this is Sammy’s way of protecting him, of not letting the demon hurt him too badly.

But once Sam is inside, any tenderness or care is gone. The thrusts come hard and fast now.

It hurts, but the physical pain is only part of it.

He looks up at his baby brother’s face, so serious in its concentration and ecstasy, and he wishes that he would just die.

He knows that Sam is not doing this to him, that Sam is not fucking him right into this leaf-strewn ground, but it is Sam’s face that he sees, Sam’s body that he feels, and he knows that it is Sam that he will remember.

The demon was right. Death would be a blessing. He would beg for it if only he could find his voice.

He turns his head to the side and stares at the trees, seeing nothing.

Sam places a hand on his chin and turns his head back to him. “No, no, Dean. You don’t get to go away. This game is only fun if you play, too.”

And then he bites down on Dean’s shoulder and everything comes back into intense focus. The rocks underneath him, Sam between his legs, the grunting sounds, the smell of sweat and blood. All of it.

He wishes for the zone out, tries for it, but it is too late. Sam is coming inside him. He whimpers, turns his head away, feels the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, doesn’t care.

Finally, Sam pulls out; very gently now, almost as gently as he entered him.

Dean doesn’t understand it, wonders again if Sam is controlling the demon in that one little act. Even so, gentle or not, it burns and Dean gasps and arches his back.

He doesn’t notice when Sam stands up. Doesn’t notice when he pulls his pants back up or smooths down his messy hair.

There are things worse than death.

Sam is beside him now, kneeling down on the ground next to him. He brings one hand under Dean’s head and lifts it just slightly. Dean finds himself gazing into those strange, golden eyes before Sam leans down even more, so that his lips are next to Dean’s ear.

Dean’s gaze goes soft, once more staring out into the dense woods as the demon uses Sam’s mouth to whisper to him.

Sam’s breath is hot against him, so hot it scorches. Dean winces.

“I’m going to leave you with a little present. So you don’t forget me.” Sam’s hand presses flat against Dean’s stomach, his fingers splaying wide.

Such big hands, Dean thinks distractedly. Sam has such big hands.

“The gestation period is only six months. In six months it will chew and claw its way out of you.”

No. God, no.

The demon releases him, letting his head fall back to the ground.

Dean closes his eyes as the world turns on its side and spins. The bile begins to rise at the back of his throat as the demon’s hot, whispered words echo in his mind.

A present.

Worse than death.

The demon takes in Dean’s ghostly pallor, the fast, shallow breathing and smiles before stepping away.

He is done here.

He leaves Sam’s body in a rush of black ooze and twists himself deep into the earth. It is time to go home.

And to watch. And wait. In six months he will reap what he has sown here today. They all will.


	2. Chapter 2

One hour.

That’s how long it’s been since the demon released his control on them both and went scuttling back in triumph to whatever hell it belonged to.

One hour since Dean turned over and puked until his throat and nose burned like he’d just dispelled acid through them.

One hour since Sam had picked him up and all but carried him back to the car because his legs were shaking like a newborn foal’s and wouldn’t support him.

One hour.

And now they are back in the motel room and Sam is helping Dean over to the bed, all the while fussing over him like a mother hen with her chick.

He sounds hysterical as he talks, asking Dean if he’s ok, insisting that they need to go to a hospital.

And apologizing.

He apologizes over and over again, so often that he morphs into a living, breathing, broken record. Dean is pretty sure that if he hears the words, “I’m sorry,” come out of Sam’s mouth one more time, he is going to scream. Or punch him in the face. He’s pretty sure that either way he will get Sam to shut up once and for all.

In the end though, he does neither. He merely pushes Sam away from him. There is little force behind it however and Sam barely stumbles. “Sam, I’m fine. I just need a couple of pain pills and a shower. I’ll be fine.”

Sam steps away. “Dean, I really think you need . . . ”

A hospital.

That’s what Sam’s about to say - that he needs a hospital. But there is no way in hell that’s going to happen. Those doctors and nurses will take one look at him and they’ll know. They’ll know that he allowed this to happen to him, they’ll know that he just lay there and let his brother . . .

He stops, unwilling to finish the thought. “You don’t know what the fuck I need, Sam, ok?” he shouts. “So just leave me alone!”

He stands up, ignoring the pain that comes alive at the movement. It hurts to breathe and it hurts to walk but somehow he manages to do both.

He’s got to get away from Sam; has got to be alone. He’s never needed anything more.

And while he’s at it, he needs to get clean. Desperately.

He’s taken a few slow steps toward the bathroom when he catches a glimpse of Sam’s face. He has studiously avoided looking at him until now. But suddenly it is all he sees; his entire world centers on Sam’s eyes and the horror and the anguish written in them.

In Sam’s very normal, hazel eyes.

He turns away just in time to stop the hysterical giggle from flying past his lips.

It’s not funny, not of it is, and he knows this, but still . . . the irony of it all . . . it can’t be ignored, can it?

Because really, who would have expected that Sam would not be able to remember a god-damned thing?

If that isn’t ironic, Dean doesn’t know what is.

But Sam, convenient memory loss notwithstanding, is pretty damn sharp. College boy took a good look around those woods and was able to put things together. No different than solving a math problem really.

What do you get when you take one bloody, half-naked brother, two bruised knuckles, two scraped knees and one wet crotch?

Dean can still hear Sam’s voice echoing into the woods.

Did I do this to you, Dean? Did I hurt you? Oh God . . . oh God . . .

Dean turns away from Sam’s pain and makes his way to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Then he leans against it and breathes heavily as a hundred different emotions assail him. There are so many, yet he can’t seem to decide which one to focus on. Should he be angry? Depressed? Scared? Bitter? He can’t grasp on to any one of them long enough to truly feel it.

Finally he decides on none of them.

He won’t feel anything.

He simply won’t. He’s stronger than this. He can handle this.

“Dean, please let me help you.”

He ignores Sam’s muted pleas and concentrates on peeling his clothes off. It’s a slow process and painful enough to illicit gasp after gasp until he’s panting from the exertion.

Finally, he has them all off and he stumbles into the shower. He turns it on, nice and hot, and grabs the soap and immediately begins to scrub.

He hisses as the water hits his back like a mass of superheated needles, but he quickly disregards it. Getting clean is the only thing that matter right now. Pain is secondary.

He scrubs harder and tells himself that he will get through this. That the demon hasn’t beaten him; hasn’t broken him.

He will get through this.

Then his hand strays over his stomach and without warning the images and sensations begin to rush at him, one after another, each one so vivid and alive he almost believes he is back in the woods.

Sam leering at him.

Sam’s hands on his hips, anchoring him.

Sam’s too-soft lips against his own.

The touch of a cool breeze on his legs as Sam pulls down his jeans.

The whisper of Sam’s voice telling him that he’s left him a present. A fate worse than death.

The sobs, the ones that he’d been battling all along, begin to tear loose from his throat as he slams his fist against the tiles. A moment later, his body is sliding down the shower wall until he is nothing but an insignificant ball, huddled and shaking against the water.

When Sam finally comes to him, it is to turn off the water and pull him out of the shower stall with frightening ease. He doesn’t fight. He lets himself be taken, lets himself be wrapped tenderly in coarse white towels and pulled down to the ground.

He marvels at the fact that Sam is somehow holding him both tightly and tenderly at the same time, rocking him back and forth just enough.

He sits and cries into Sam’s shoulder for a very long time.

Then when all the tears are gone, he lets Sam help him into bed.

“Take these,” Sam says, holding out two pills and a glass of water.

He takes them and swallows them greedily, relishing their bitter taste as they make their way down his throat.

“Dean, I’m. . . .”

“Don’t, Sam. Don't.”

Oblivion is coming. And it couldn’t possibly come fast enough.

The last thing he sees before sleep takes him are Sam’s mournful eyes watching him from the other bed.

The pills had promised oblivion, but they had lied. Even in sleep the demon haunted him. Wild, wicked dreams had him waking up after only a few hours.

So instead of sleeping Dean stares up at the darkened ceiling and listens to his little brother breathe. He tries really hard not to think. Tries really hard not to let his hands drift down to his stomach and to whatever monster is now within it.

 _Oh Sammy. We are so well and truly fucked._

More hysterical laughter wells up inside of him, has just begun to spill from his lips when he hears Sam’s breathing speeding up.

He stills; listens closely.

He can hear Sam thrashing in the dark, can hear his low gutteral moans.

The fear takes his breath away. Fear that the demon is back. Fear that it is time for another lesson.

Then Sam sits straight up in bed and lets out the most heart-wrenching, terrible scream he’s ever heard.

Before he can even react, Sam is up and running toward the bathroom.

Dean hears the door slam shut. Then the muted sounds of retching.

Dean shudders and rubs his stomach without conscious thought.

They are now well and truly fucked.

Because Dean is pretty damn sure that Sam has just remembered.


	3. Chapter 3

One week.

It has been one week since new nightmares have begun to haunt both Dean and Sam’s sleep. One week since Sam burned and salted bones while Dean watched from the car, almost crippled with pain but not daring to be alone. One week since they left that town for another in a blaze of dust and screeching tires, because Dean couldn’t stand to be there another second.

One week and they’re in a different town, a different motel. And yet nothing has changed.

Dean stumbles out of bed at the too early hour of five a.m., lower lip just starting to bleed from where he has bitten it to keep back a scream, the lingering images of the latest nightmare still as vivid as a technicolor movie. He resolutely shakes them off and heads for the shower - his first of the day.

By the time night falls, he’ll have taken two, maybe three. Feeling clean has become something of an obsession for him. It has become his white whale - something he pursues with single-mindedness, but something that eludes him nevertheless.

As he stands and stretches, he sees Sam, already awake and clicking away at the laptop, probably researching the ‘present’ and how to get rid of it.

Sam has his own obsessions.

Sam looks up him as he passes, eyes hopeful. “Dean . . . ”

“Not now, Sam,” he mutters. He walks past him, averting his gaze so that he doesn’t have to see Sam’s face crumble with misery.

Not now, Sam.

Those three words are all he seems to say to his brother anymore. They have become Dean’s shield, protecting him against Sam’s good intentions, against his desire to turn every conversation into a therapy session.

He shuts the bathroom door behind him and shuffles into the shower, moving as quickly as his still healing body will allow him to.

Once inside the stall, he turns the water on as high as it will go and begins to scrub. He concentrates on the little details: soaping up the washcloth, rubbing it over his skin, rinsing off the soap. He has found that if he concentrates hard enough on these things, he won’t think about the reason his body hurts so badly or why he has to be so careful as he cleans.

After a few minutes, he begins to feel a faint buzz of anxiety. He groans and drops his head against the tile, frustrated. Ever since the . . . incident (he can’t bear to think of it any other way), he has been trapped between a desire to be as far away from Sam as possible and the need to be near him constantly - to make sure that the demon does not take them by surprise ever again.

He gives in to the anxiety, which is growing by the second, and rushes through the shower, drying off and dressing in a hurry.

As he slips his t-shirt over his head, he thinks about how just a few days ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about getting dressed in front of Sam. Now it’s simply not an option. He sighs as he realizes that it’s just one more thing that the demon has managed to steal from him. From them.

The thought hurts, more than the welts or the bruised ribs ever could.

He steps out of the bathroom and finds that Sam is standing in front of his bed, his gaze steady and concerned.

“We need to talk.”

Here we go.

The words come without thought. “Not now, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes flash with hurt, but he musters on. “Not about that. It’s about this.” He takes a step toward the bed and pulls back the blanket like a magician unveiling a trick.

In the middle of the bed, the one Dean left only moments ago, is a small bloodstain.

Dean’s throat closes up and for a moment he simply does not breathe. He swallows hard, remembers to take a breath. And searches for the lie. Any lie. “That’s not . . . it’s from my back. You . . . it got me pretty good with that branch.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, Dean. None of those welts have opened. You know that.”

“I...”

“Dean, talk to me, man. Just talk to me. I’m begging you here.”

He wants to find another lie, something that will make Sam keep quiet and go away. But he’s so tired. He’s ashamed and embarrassed and he hates this and he hates the thought of admitting why the stain is there. But most of all he is tired. Too tired to fight it. Too tired to lie. He turns his face away.

“It won’t stop bleeding,” he admits softly.

Sam makes a noise that is more wounded animal than human being, one that sends shivers up Dean’s spine. But still he keeps his gaze to the floor.

He waits and listens to the jagged, uneven breaths that signify that Sam is trying to get himself under control.

Sam’s voice is raw, bruised, as he says, “Dean, you need a doctor. You know that right?”

“I think something’s wrong,” he says absently.

“Dean . . . ”

He lifts his head at last. “I know, Sam! I know! But I can’t!” His own sudden anger surprises and unnerves him. He has always prided himself on being able to control his emotions. But now; now they’re all over the place, skittering away from him whenever he tries to grab hold of them. Now they control him.

“You can’t what?” Sam asks. “Go to a doctor? Why not? Because of the . . . ” he waves his hand. “Because of the . . . ”

Dean decides to spare Sam before his brother has a seizure trying to get the words out. “They’re going to look at me,” he says.

“What?”

“They’re going to look at me like I’m some kind of freak,” he says, voice loud, agitated “They’re going to look at me with . . . ” he falters, stops, not sure if he wants to continue.

“What, Dean?” Sam pleads.

“With disgust, all right? With disgust.”

Sam’s brows knit together in confusion. “Why would you think that?”

“Because stuff like this doesn’t happen to guys! It happens to girls. Women. Not guys.” He pauses, lowers his voice so that Sam has to strain to hear. “Not me.”

“Dean . . . ”

“Besides, have you looked around here lately? The word podunk is too good for this place. They’d probably call me a homo and string me up just on principle.”

Sam’s sigh is heavy and deep. The sigh of a man that feels the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Look, Dean, I can’t promise that people aren’t going to be judgmental. But it doesn’t matter what they think. It doesn’t matter what anybody thinks. You and I know what happened. You and I know that you couldn’t stop it.”

Dean doesn’t bother saying that he knows no such thing. What he does know is that he’s relived the incident a thousand times over and each time he comes out victorious. Each time he banishes the demon and saves Sammy and himself.

So no, he doesn’t know that he couldn’t have stopped it.

But he doesn’t tell this to Sam. He’s already exceeded his quota of sharing for the day. Any more and he’s going to be forced to slam his head against the wall.

“If you want, we could drive into the city,” Sam says, speaking in a slow, hesitant voice, as if he’s afraid he’s already said too much. “It doesn’t have to be here. I’m sure the doctors there are a little more open-minded.”

Dean looks down and grabs the hem of his shirt, worrying it mercilessly. He doesn’t want to go.

He really doesn’t want to go.

But he knows he has to.

He finally looks up, his fingers continuing their assault on his shirt. “Ok, Sam. We’ll go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They are an hour away from the city when Sam takes a deep breath and veers sharply out of traffic and onto the highway’s shoulder.

Dean’s heart constricts at the thought that it’s going to happen again, and why the fuck hadn’t he been more careful?

He whips his head toward Sam, fight or flight response already kicking into high gear when he sees Sam’s eyes.

There’s not a hint of gold in them. No demon. Just Sam.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts.

Sam turns off the engine and twists his long body so that they are facing each other. “Dean, we need to talk.”

“Sam, now is not the time for a Hallmark moment, ok?” The adrenaline running uselessly through his body causes his voice and body to tremble. God, he must look like he’s petrified.

“Yeah, well, there is no other time. You won’t even look at me, much less talk to me. You can’t even stand to be near me. Believe me if I thought there was a better time, I’d wait.”

Dean glares at him, but Sam’s steady gaze doesn’t waver. Finally he relents and, turning his head, stares out the windshield. “Fine. Say what you gotta say.”

Dean waits for Sam to begin.

And waits.

He knows that Sam is gathering his thoughts. He always does this when he’s about to say something really important. He always has.

It is this simple thought that causes a surge of love to rise within him. A surge so strong it is almost painful. No matter what has happened, this is still his brother. This is still Sam. He has to try to hang onto that.

He speaks before Sam has a chance to. “I know it wasn’t you, Sam.”

“Do you, Dean? Do you really?” Sam asks desperately. “Because you’re treating me like I’m the enemy here and I don’t know what to do. I mean, you know that I would never hurt you, right? That I would never purposely hurt you?”

Because Sammy wants this almost as much as I do . . .

Dean shakes his head to rid it of the poisonous words. They’re just lies anyway. Demons lie. It’s what they do. He risks looking at Sam, then almost has to turn away again. His brother looks like he’s two seconds away from a nervous breakdown.

“I know that,” he says, trying to control his own breakdown. “Logically, I know that, Sam. But when I think about it, I see you. And when I see you, I think about it. And I kind of feel like I’m losing my mind here. And I don’t want to hurt you. But I just don’t know how to feel around you right now or how to act around you and . . . ”

He stops when he sees the tears on Sam’s face. He slides into protective brother mode without conscious thought.

“I’ll get over it, Sam. I will. I just need a little time.”

“I know you do. And I know it’s not going to happen overnight. Just don’t shut me out, please Dean. I mean, I was there too. Sometimes I don’t know how I’m going to be able to live with what I saw. Or with what it made me do.” He pauses to wipe at the tears with his sleeve. “But I do know that the only way we’re going to get through this is if we stick together, you know?”

Dean leans back against the seat, suddenly feeling wrung out, drained. He reaches out toward Sam, wipes away one lingering tear. The motion takes the last of his strength. “I know, Sammy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The experience at the hospital turns out to be not nearly as bad as he expected.

The doctor is gentle. The nurse is kind. And best of all, they believe his bullshit story about getting drunk in a local bar and waking up like this, with no idea who could have attacked him.

The examination and the stitches to repair the damage are done and over before the humiliation can become completely overwhelming. Before the stupid tears that are burning behind his eyes can spill free.

They leave him alone to dress, the doctor telling him that the nurse will be in shortly with some samples of antibiotic cream that he’ll have to use to treat the infection.

Dean dresses quickly and sits up on the exam table, wrapping his arms tight around his body. He shivers although the room is quite warm.

At least it’s over.

He repeats that sentence to himself, over and over, making it his mantra until he hears the courtesy knock at the door.

The door opens and the nurse enters, turning immediately toward the counter.

Dean holds out his hand for the samples, impatient to get them and go.

“Your brother ripped you up pretty good, didn’t he?” the nurse says as she begins to turn toward him. “I bet you never knew he was that big.”

Dean freezes in place, eyes opening wide. “What did you say?” he whispers through a paper-dry throat.

The nurse steps forward, nearing him, golden eyes flashing obscenely against the fluorescent light.

“You heard me.”

Dean throws his body up, ready to fight, ready to rip the thing’s head off right here and now. But the demon moves faster. Using the nurse’s body, he knocks Dean back down, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand while the other clamps down over his mouth.

“Shh . . . relax. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Dean hears the words, but they might as well have been spoken in Greek for all the sense they make to him. All he knows is that the demon is on top of him again and that he can’t possibly survive another lesson. He can’t.

He struggles wildly against her, but it is useless. She is like stone; the immovable object.

“You think I’m going to fuck you again, don’t you?”

Dean’s only answer is to begin to hyperventilate.

“Well, don’t worry. This equipment makes it a little bit harder. And we don’t really have the time.”

The nurse cocks her head to the side, looks at him with false concern. “Aw, you don’t look good. You’re not going to throw up, are you? I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna let go of you, but you have to promise not to do anything stupid like try to attack me or call for your brother. If you do, I’ll have to slaughter a few of these innocent people, starting with that ten-year-old down the hall.”

The threat against the child causes something to click inside of Dean, like a switch being thrown. His breathing slows as the fear begins to dissolve into anger.

“Do you promise?”

Dean gives a quick nod and the nurse lets him go, but otherwise does not move. She continues to lean over him, her body pressed against his.

“What do you want?” he rasps.

“To see the mother-to-be of course. Make sure you’re taking good care of my child.”

“Your child?” He gives a humorless laugh. “This monster isn’t going to live to see the light of day, you son-of-a-bitch.”

The demon forces the nurse to chuckle. “Oh, Dean, I don’t think so. But you go right ahead and believe that, if it gets you through the night. Speaking of which, how have you been sleeping at night?”

He doesn’t even think, just balls his hand into a fist and lifts it to strike that smug look off of her face.

He never connects. The nurse reaches out and grabs his wrist without ever looking away from him.

“Don’t ever forget that you brought this on yourself, Dean,” the demon snarls. “You wanted to play the hero so badly, well here’s the price. This is the aftermath.”

“I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you and this . . . this thing that you put inside me.”

The nurse smiles. “You truly are one of a kind. Very entertaining.” She releases his hand and steps away. “I’d love to stay and chat some more, but I have to be going. This one’s going to be missed soon,” she says as she indicates her body.

Dean stays still, rubbing his sore wrist absently. He waits and watches for the demon’s next move, certain that it’s not done with him yet.

“By the way, Dean. I want you to know how much I enjoyed our time together. You were so tight. So warm. And so delicious in your fear. I think about it often. I hope you do too.”

And just like that, the demon is gone, rushing out of the pretty, young nurse’s mouth and into the ground.

She staggers and places a hand on her head, looking around in confusion.

“What . . . ?”

Dean would love to help her. He really would. She’s obviously never had anything like this happen to her.

But he’s got his own problems.

Like the fact that he’s shivering so badly now that he feels like his teeth are going to crack apart in his mouth. Or the fact that he’s about one heartbeat away from throwing up the measly nothing he had for breakfast.

Or the fact that he realizes now that he cannot do this. That he was a fool to believe that he ever could. A fool to believe that he was strong and could survive this.

The demon has won. It won the moment it first placed Sam’s hands on his body.

And it was right.

Death would be better.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean sits inside the motel room and stares out the window. The afternoon sun is bright and golden and it makes everything glow. It makes everything beautiful - even if all Dean can see is asphalt and parked cars.

He would give anything to be able to go outside into that glow. To feel the warmth of the sun on his face, to close his eyes and still see its brightness behind his eyelids.

He can’t remember the last time he was able to walk around in daylight. He knows it’s only been about a month but it feels like a lifetime. A lifetime of being shut inside motel room after motel room, moving under cover of darkness every few days so that no one gets suspicious. So that no one questions why a man who seems perfectly normal and healthy has the stomach of a five- month pregnant woman.

It’s been two months since the incident. Two months since the doctor had to come back into the exam room and sedate him because he’d been freaking out so badly that he’d curled up into the fetal position on the exam table. Two months since he’d had to lean heavily against Sam as they made their way out of the hospital - the shock of encountering the demon and the weight of the sedative robbing him of his ability to move on his own.

That was when the search to get rid of the monster inside of him had kicked into high gear. From that moment on, they had spent almost every waking second either researching how to kill it or trying out what they’d researched. From exorcisms to potions to elaborate rituals, they had tried it all.

And not a single thing had worked.

Dean places one hand on his swollen belly and thinks about the day that he finally understood what his fate was to be. It was two weeks ago, yet the conversation plays for him as clearly as if it were taking place now.

_“This says that throughout history there have literally been hundreds of women who claimed to have been impregnated by demons or the devil himself. But that there was no way to substantiate those claims. But according to this author there have been at least eight documented cases that sound similar to yours.”_

“Similar, how?”

“All the children were born exactly three months premature. And . . . not in the usual way.”

“Let me guess . . . the children chewed and clawed their way out of momma’s stomach?”

“Um . . . yeah.”

“What happened to them? The women? The babies?”

“I don’t . . . ”

“What happened to them, Sam?”

“The women, they all died of massive hemorrhaging. The babies were so horribly deformed that they were killed outright, either out of mercy or disgust, or they died a few days later on their own.”

The sound of a tap at the door pulls Dean from the memory. He listens intently as the tapping continues, short quick raps intermingled with longer ones. In Morse code they spell out one word.

_Safe._

The knocking ends and a moment later the door opens to reveal Sam standing at the threshold, a takeout bag in one hand and a supermarket bag in the other.

Dean picks up the shotgun packed with rock salt and aims. His heart is beating crazily but he manages to keep his hands steady. It was the right password for today, but still. . .he can never be too careful. “Let me see your eyes.”

Sam does not protest. He leans forward and opens his eyes wide so Dean can clearly see that there’s no gold in them.

Dean puts the shotgun down with a shaky sigh of relief.

It’s only Sam.

It’s only Sam.

“Ok?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, ok.”

He watches as Sam sets the bags down on the table in the corner, laying everything out quickly and efficiently.

“Sorry it took me so long to get back. The line at the market was really long.”

Dean doesn’t bother answering. He knows that Sam is just talking to fill the silence. It’s a habit his brother has recently picked up, and to be honest, it’s a habit that he finds somewhat comforting.

He starts to push up from the bed, but lets out a small groan when his body betrays him and he sinks back down on the mattress.

Sam is at his side instantly. “Do you want some help? Or maybe I could just bring it to you?”

Dean bats at Sam’s hands and shakes his head to both suggestions. “No, I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

Sam looks like he wants to argue, but he clamps his mouth shut and walks back to the table.

The truth is, Dean is not fine. He is tired, bone-numbingly tired. He always seems to be tired lately, even when he hasn’t done anything. But he isn’t ready to admit that to Sam. And he is certainly not ready to become a complete invalid.

After two more false starts, he gets up and shuffles slowly over to the table, sitting down heavily in the empty chair. Sam sets his plate down in front of him and he looks down at it. One part of him feels revulsion at what he sees, while another, much larger part of him stares at it ravenously. It is all he can do not to grab the raw hamburger meat and begin to stuff it down his throat like some wild animal.

“Don’t look, Sam.”

“Dean, come on, it’s just me.”

“No. It’s bad enough I have to eat this. I don’t want you to see it. You know that.”

And of course Sam knows it. They go through this bizarre little ritual every time it’s time to eat; ever since the thing inside of him decided it no longer wanted regular food, but that raw meat sounded really tasty.

“Do you want to try some of my rice?” Sam asks in a hesitant voice.

Dean almost laughs. He would love nothing more than to try some of Sam’s nice, normal food. But he knows well and good that he’ll just throw it up. Just like every other time he’s gotten defiant and refused to give in to the monster’s cravings.

But once again, Sam knows this. How could he not? He’s been there every time, rubbing Dean’s back as he spewed his guts into the toilet.

“Baby doesn’t want the rice,” he says and the sarcasm and bitterness in his voice are enough to get Sam to back down and turn his head away.

So while Sam is busy picking at his rice and sweet and sour chicken, Dean spoons up some of the hamburger, places it in his mouth and thinks that it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

After the early meal, Dean wanders back over to the bed while Sam pulls out the laptop. He’s so tired, and the clicking of the keyboard keys is somehow soothing. After a while, the sounds seem to turn rhythmic and his eyes begin to close.

“I was thinking that we could try another exorcism.”

Dean starts awake at the words and rubs at his stomach. “What?”

“The Chinese ritual is pretty complicated. I don’t think we did it quite right. I think we should try it again.”

The thought of going through that again makes him feel even more exhausted and he has to fight to keep his eyes open. “Sam, no. We’ve already tried everything. We’ve tried everything twice. We just have to admit it. This thing isn’t coming out of me.”

Sam walks over to the bed and sits on its edge, all wide eyes and nervous hands. “Don’t say that. We’re gonna get it out. We just haven’t found the right way to do it.”

“It’s gonna be just like that scene in Alien.”

“Dean!”

“What, Sam?”

“Don’t talk like that!”

Dean places his free hand on Sam’s leg. “Listen, Sam,” he says solemnly. “You have to promise me that when it comes out, that you’re gonna kill it. Don’t hesitate.”

“Dean . . . ”

“I would do it myself, but I’m pretty sure that by that time I’ll be looking like road kill. So you have to do it. Promise me.”

Sam looks completely mortified, his eyes already welling up with tears. “Dean, I am not letting you die. I’m not.”

“Sam, come on. Let’s not kid ourselves here. There’s nothing left to do. Nothing left to do but wait.”

“No.”

“No?” he asks, suddenly feeling angry. “Then give me back my guns and we’ll just end it right here and now; no waiting required.”

“You know that I am not letting you do that. You know that.”

“Fine! There’s other ways of doing it, you know. You can’t watch me all the time. I could have done it today while you were getting food.”

“Suicide is not an option, Dean,” Sam growls

“Then you’d rather I die an ugly, horrible death?”

“Fuck you, Dean!” Sam shouts, leaping off the bed. “You are not gonna die! Why can’t you get that through your thick skull?”

“Fuck you, Sam!” Dean shouts right back. “When are you going to get it through yourthick skull that there’s nothing else to do? Huh? Unless you wanna kick my stomach a few dozen times? Or push me down a flight of stairs? Oh, I know!” He snaps his fingers. “Let’s find us a wire hanger and a back alley. That’ll take care of the problem.”

“Why do you say those things?”

During the course of the argument, Dean had pushed himself up into a sitting position, his anger fueling him and granting him strength. But with the anger quickly evaporating, he falls back onto the bed, strength all but depleted. “Because,” he says, frustrated with his body’s repeated betrayal. “The sooner we accept this the easier things are gonna be. Because we are out of options. Because I can’t just march into Planned Parenthood and ask for an abortion. Because I am going to fucking die no matter how you look at it, Sam.”

Sam turns away and covers his face so that Dean can barely hear his muffled, “No. No.”

Dean watches him, hoping that this means that Sam is finally accepting his inevitable death; hoping that he has finally been able to cut through Sam’s wall of denial. He needs Sam to be strong for him. He needs Sam to be with him. He does not need Sam dreaming about a happily ever after that won’t happen.

A moment later though, Sam’s entire body language changes. He stands up straighter and runs a hand hurriedly through his hair. “Wait,” he says.

“What?”

He turns around, his face flush with excitement. “That’s it!”

Dean eyes him warily. “What’s it?”

But Sam doesn’t notice the look. He comes back to Dean’s bed, not sitting on it, but kneeling beside it, talking at a hundred miles a minute. “We’ve been going about this all wrong. We’ve tried every supernatural way possible to abort that monster. But maybe what we need to try is a regular abortion.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “You even come near me with a wire hanger and I will kill you.”

“Not that. We’ll get someone to take it out of you.”

“Once again, Sam,” Dean says, gesturing to his stomach. “I can’t just march into Planned Parenthood and demand an abortion.”

Sam places his hand on Dean’s arm and Dean, acting on instinct, pulls back with a shudder. Sam frowns but continues. “I’ll start calling around. All the people we know, surely one of them has helped a doctor, someone who would be willing to return the favor. Someone who already knows the supernatural exists and wouldn’t necessarily freak out at seeing a pregnant man.”

Dean sighs and closes his eyes. Apparently Sam is going to live behind his wall of denial just a little while longer. “Fine, Sam. You do what you want.”

“Yeah, I will. I’m gonna start with Bobby.”

Dean hears Sam stand up and walk away from him. He hears him fiddling with the phone and finally dialing. He hears Sam saying hello and the beginning of the conversation.

And then he hears nothing else, the need for sleep finally consuming him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wakes up hours later from yet another harrowing nightmare with a scream lodged in the back of his throat and fighting an attacker that is not there.

It takes him several seconds to realize that he is safe in a motel room, not lying in the middle of the woods being held down and fucked by his brother.

He glances over at the other bed and is relieved to see that Sam is sound asleep.

Breathing heavily, he gets up and makes his way to the bathroom, not bothering turning on the lights. He’s already memorized the path from his bed to the other room and all he needs is a little bit of moonlight to make the journey.

Once inside the bathroom, he locks the door and turns on the light, then makes his way over to the sink.

Sam doesn’t get it. Sam, eternal, stubborn optimist that he is, will never understand. He thinks that if he works at this long enough and hard enough, that he will be able to fix things; that things will be ok.

But what Sam doesn’t understand is that even if they somehow manage to get the monster out of him, that things will never be ok again.

What Sam doesn’t, or won’t, understand is that Dean can’t forget. He has tried. But he can’t. Not when memories of that wretched day are constantly replaying themselves in his mind. Not when he can still feel Sam’s hands gripping his thighs or his kiss against his lips. Not when he can still remember so clearly what it felt like to look up during the worst of the burning, searing pain and see his brother’s face.

Death would be a blessing.

He opens his shaving kit and carefully pulls out a razor blade, holding it over his left wrist. He has read about this, knows that he doesn’t want to cut from side to side.

The cut he makes is long and deep and it hurts like a bitch. He has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. Has to grab the sink with his other hand to keep himself from falling to the floor.

He breathes through it, all the while staring as the blood flows and flows a beautiful, bright red.

Now the other one. He has to somehow do the other one. With shaking hands, he switches the blade to his other hand, trying to clutch it in nerveless fingers.

The blade slips into the sink and Dean is about to reach for it when he senses something. A thickening of the air, a heat that wasn’t there before. He looks around wildly before he realizes that the heat is converging around him, around his arm.

He stares at his wrist and watches in astonishment as the blood begins to slow. With a trembling hand he turns on the tap and sticks his arm underneath it.

It doesn’t even sting.

A moment later the blood is washed away and Dean can see down to his skin.

All he can do is gasp and stare in shocked horror as his skin draws back together, stitching itself seamlessly until there is nothing left to indicate that a razor had ever touched it.

“No,” he whispers. “No.”

But it is done. He is healed. And except for a faint dizziness, he feels fine.

“No,” he whispers again. “You have to let me die. You have to.”

And just then, as if in answer to Dean’s plea, the thing inside of him kicks.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean does not tell Sam about the botched suicide attempt. He does not tell him about the razor ripping into his skin and the certain, almost blissful feeling that he was going to die. He does not tell him about how his skin began to knit itself together soon after, erasing any hope of escape, nor does he tell him about falling to the floor like a broken puppet, hands entangled in too-long hair and wondering if this is what insanity tasted like. 

There are some things that Sam does not need to know. Some things are his and his alone. 

He does, however, tell Sam that the monster now moves within him. 

Not that he wouldn’t rather hide that from Sam as well, but there’s really no way possible to keep it from him, not with the thing kicking all the damn time; not with the way it undulates just under his skin, moving his stomach like some obscene wave. 

The new development mortifies Sam and he pours all his effort into finding someone to help them. He calls everyone they know, then he calls them again. Finally, Bobby comes through for them. Although he himself doesn’t know a doctor, he knows someone who does, and three days later, they are back on the road, heading for Santa Barbara where their miracle worker waits for them. 

The days blur into one another as they spend hour after uncomfortable hour in the car. The going is slow, mostly because Sam is the only one that can drive. Dean’s tried, but the movement in his stomach distracting him and his constant fatigue make driving a flat-out danger. 

The nights are repetitive, mirror copies of each other, the only difference between them being the ever-changing motel room. They invested in a cooler before they left, so that Sam doesn’t have to go out as much. The raw meat, they’ve found, keeps for at least two days if packed within enough ice. So every night they eat, Sam tries to talk, Dean avoids it, and they sleep. 

And all the while, the tension between them grows. 

On the sixth day, they cross California’s border just as daylight is beginning to wane. They drive to the first motel they see, Sam booking them a room and then sneaking Dean into it under full cover of darkness. 

After dinner and a quick shower, Dean throws on some old sweat pants and a t-shirt in the bathroom. As he’s about to leave, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stops to stare. He runs a hand down his stomach, amazed as always at how much of a freak he’s become. 

“They should put me in a fucking circus,” he mutters, feeling sickened. He leaves the bathroom before he’s tempted to smash the mirror and his deformed reflection into nothingness. 

He heads for the bed, sliding into it with a tired sigh. He looks over and sees that Sam is sitting cross-legged on his own bed, watching him with that worried expression he always wears, the one that seems to have become permanently etched into his features. “Is there anything else I can get you?” his brother asks.

The monster gives a lazy kick and Dean rubs at the spot with a grimace. “No, Sam. I think I just wanna go to bed.”

“I was thinking we could stay up a little? Men in Black’s on tonight. That’s one of your favorites, right?” 

Dean cocoons his body further into the warmth of the blankets. For a moment he’s tempted. A movie with Sam does sound good. It sounds normal, something they would have done before, before things went so wrong. It sounds good, but . . . 

“The baby wants to sleep, Sam.” He says it without an ounce of sarcasm, just a flat statement of fact. 

Sam sighs and, clearly disappointed, says, “Yeah.” 

“I don’t mind if you watch it, though. It won’t keep me up.” 

“I know, Dean. Nothing does.” 

Dean’s about to reply to the strange comment when Sam turns the tv on. He shrugs and turns his head to the side, eyes closing, mind already losing track of the conversation.

Sleep comes easily, too easily, the exhaustion he is always fighting during the day becoming impossible to hold back at night. 

Just before he goes under, he gives a silent prayer to a god that he no longer trusts that tonight there will be no dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_He is lying flat on his back in a wood._

_The sun is setting, dipping into the horizon and the entire sky is aflame with red, orange and gold._

_“Great,” he mutters as he tries unsuccessfully to stand. The word is said in a tone meant to convey irritation, but what Dean really feels is a great and terrible fear. He looks around, taking in his surroundings, trying to determine how it’s going to happen this time._

_He is not surprised to find that he is already naked, his legs spread wide, his arms leaden weights above his head._

_He waits, trapped helpless and alone until suddenly, from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, a silken whisper reaches his ears. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep.”_

_Then a second later, the voice of his brother, mocking and cold. “Aren’t they, Dean?”_

_As if on command, the wood goes still and silent, becoming a dead thing._

_Dean searches frantically for the source of the voice, only to find that Sam is now standing before him, his hands on his hips and a crooked smile on his face._

_And writhing on the ground next to him, is the most terrible thing that Dean has ever seen._

_It is small, maybe the size of a dog, but with a vaguely human shape. The skin covering its body looks red and tender, as if scraped raw. It watches him through huge, unblinking black eyes that sit in the middle of its misshapen head._

_As Dean stares in horror, it opens its mouth and lets out a strangled, mewling noise from between sharp, jagged teeth._

_“What . . . ?” Dean manages to gasp out._

_“This is our child, Dean. Isn’t it beautiful?”_

_Dean shakes his head as words abandon him._

_Sam steps close to him, already working at the button on his jeans. The thing next to him begins to crawl forward._

_“We’re going to put it inside of you now,” Sam says as he brings his long body down to Dean’s. “It wants to be with its mother.”_

Dean comes awake like a drowning man pulled from the sea, all flailing limbs and huge, gasping breaths. 

His only thought, wild and loud in his head, is that he has to get away. He cannot let that thing near him. He cannot let Sam put that into his body. 

So when he feels strong hands on his arms, pinning him down, he panics all the more and begins to struggle with everything he has. 

“Dean, it’s me. It was just a dream. You’re safe now.” 

The soft, urgent words mean nothing to him. The hands holding him down, they mean everything. 

He screams and struggles harder.

The hands grip him and pull him up into a sitting position and he blinks owlishly into the dark before he feels strong arms wrap around his body. 

“Stop, Dean! It’s ok. You’re safe now.” 

“No,” he whimpers. “Get away from me.”

“Dean, it’s Sam. Please.”

He stills at the sound of the name, his strength so depleted that he has to lean into those surrounding arms. 

Sam is here. Sam is holding him.

But is it Sam, his brother or Sam, the monster? 

“Get away from me!” he shouts while pushing out with his hands. 

Sam finally lets him go and scrambles away, but not too far. He perches his body on the edge of the bed, his body so tight with tension that Dean can practically hear it thrumming. 

Nobody bothers reaching for the light, so they are left to stare at each other in half-shadows. 

“Dean?” Sam finally ventures.

Dean’s racing heart begins to slow as the fear begins to recede. But come to take its place is a deep sadness and confusion. “Why, Sam? Why did you do it?” he asks and to his own ears his voice sounds very broken and small.

“Do what?” 

“Hurt me. Why did you hurt me?” He feels that he’s not making much sense, but he decides he doesn’t care. He needs to know. 

Sam’s words are exhaled rather than spoken, barely more than little puffs of air. “Why do you say that? I would never . . . ”

“I asked you not to let it happen. I begged you.” With his last ounce of energy, he screams before falling back against the headboard. “I begged you, Sam!” 

Sam shrinks back from Dean’s words as if they were physical blows. “Dean, I swear to you, I tried to stop it. I did.”

“Did you?” 

“Of course I did. Dean, God, why would you even ask? Where is this coming from?”

“Maybe,” Dean says slowly. “Maybe you didn’t want to stop it.”

It’s a thought that has been with him since the first day, something that he has not fully let himself explore because doing so would be the equivalent of his physically being torn apart. Demons lie. This is what he has told himself over and over and he has managed to keep the thought down, buried deep where it belongs. 

But he can’t keep it down now. He’s tired and scared and so fucking sick to death of everything and he’s got no defenses left and the thought bubbles up to the surface of its own accord. 

“What do . . . ” Sam says, then stops in mid-sentence as he realizes the meaning of the words. 

“No, Dean. You can’t possibly believe that I wanted to do that to you.”

Dean brings his legs up to his chest as far as his stomach will allow. “It said so.” 

Sam reaches over and Dean flinches away from the expected touch. But Sam is reaching for the light, not for him, and flicks it on with a twist of his fingers. 

Dean shields his eyes against the light that floods the room, blinking furiously until they adjust to it. 

When he looks back up at Sam, it is to see that his brother is crying. 

“Listen to me, please.” Sam clasps his hands together and begins to speak in slow and measured tones. “I love you. You are my brother. And my best friend. And a damn good hunting partner. But that is all. I don’t think of you that way. I never have. The demon lied, Dean. It lied to hurt you. To hurt us.” 

“I want to believe you,” Dean says, and is surprised to hear his voice break. He runs a hand across his eyes, feels wetness there. When had he started crying?

“Then believe me. Believe _in_ me, Dean.” 

Dean covers his face with his hands and pitches forward. “Oh, God. Make it stop, Sam. Just make it stop, please. Make things the way they were.” 

Sam catches him and maneuvers them until Dean’s face is against his chest and then he holds on for everything he’s worth.

Through the sound of his own sobs, Dean can barely make out that Sam is talking, voice thick with his rushing tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have stopped it. I should have protected you.”

“It hurts. It hurts so much. Make it stop, please.”

And then Sam begins to move, rocking them both back and forth gently. And it feels good and it feels safe, and if reminds him vaguely of mother and home. 

He feels something essential break within him then, and he cries all the harder until all that pours from him are keening, wounded sounds, sounds that no person should ever have to make. And yet, it doesn’t feel like a bad thing. It feels right, and necessary, like something that has needed to happen for a very long time. 

He rides the tears like a wave, barely aware that he and Sam are holding onto each other so tightly that bruises are forming.

Eventually, the tears dry and the sobs turn into dry hiccups which turn into sniffles and both men pull away from each other. But not completely. They still maintain a connection, their hands gently touching. Anchoring each other.

Dean takes a deep, shaky breath and wonders at what has just happened. If this had been any other time or place, he would have been embarrassed at his show of emotion, would have seen it as a weakness. But right now, stupid shit like that doesn’t seem to matter.

And yet, he still can’t quite let the moment merely pass. With a weak smile, he realizes that there’s still a little bit of the old Dean Winchester left in him. 

“You are such a girl, Sammy,” he says, wiping at a stray tear on Sam’s cheek. 

Sam shoots him an incredulous look before breaking into shaky laughter. “Hey, you’re crying too.” 

“Yeah, but I have an excuse. It’s the hormones.” 

“That is so not funny,” Sam says, but he’s still laughing. 

“Not even a little?”

“Not even close.”

Dean shrugs and pulls his hands free to wipe at his own face, missing when Sam begins to sober. 

“So you don’t still think . . . ?” Sam begins.

“No,” Dean says sharply, anticipating what his brother was about to say. “No. I was being stupid.”

“Not stupid, Dean. Never stupid.” 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You know I don’t act like this.” 

“You’ve been through a horrible thing. One of the worst things a person _can_ go through. You have to cut yourself some slack.” 

“I was raped,” Dean says, surprising himself as much as Sam. He wraps his arms around his knees and tries to go small. “I was raped,” he repeats, this time in a whisper as he tries out the word, testing it. The taste of it is bitter, but he doesn’t fall apart at the sound of it, so he figures that can only be a good thing.

Sam can only nod, to trusting his voice to stay steady.

“I want this to be over, Sam,” he says. “I want what I used to have. I want to be who I used to be.” 

“Tomorrow,” Sam says, “we’ll be in Santa Barbara. Dr. Weiss will look you over and then get this thing out of you, and then . . . and then we can work on a little healing. For both of us.” 

“You really think it’ll work?” 

“I really do.”

A brief vision of the monster in his dream assails his eyes just as the real thing kicks at his stomach. “Sam?” 

“Yeah?” 

He shakes his head, eyes downcast. “God, I really am turning into a girl. In every way possible.” 

“What do you mean?” Sam asks in confusion.

Dean lifts his eyes. “Will you sleep here? With me, I mean?” 

_And keep the monsters away?_

“Next to you?” 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s no big deal.” 

The look of sheer relief and joy on Sam’s face is enough to make sounding like a needy 5-year-old worth it. 

“No, I don’t mind, Dean. Not at all.” 

And then Sam grabs his pillow and with surprising speed, turns off the light and slides into bed next to him. 

“Ok?” Sam asks after they’ve gotten comfortable. 

“Ok,” Dean answers, already half-asleep and feeling safer than he’s felt in a long time.

A moment later he feels Sam’s warm, big hand giving his wrist a reassuring squeeze. He doesn’t startle, doesn’t try to move away. Instead he relishes the touch.

The demon has managed to take everything else away from him. But he has not taken this. He has not taken his brother from him. 

Dean smiles sleepily. 

He recognizes a victory when he sees it.


	6. Chapter 6

Dr. Weiss turns out to be Dr. Jocelyn Weiss, a soft-spoken woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair and dark eyes who has her own ob/gyn practice. 

She’s pretty too, and Dean can’t help but think that if this were another place and time, he might have a chance with her. He’d be hitting on her at the very least, wielding years of practiced charm like a precision weapon. 

As it is though, he can barely stand to meet her eyes.

He really thought he’d prepared himself for having a complete stranger see him like this. He thought he’d been ready for any reaction. 

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

When they’d first walked into Dr. Weiss’ home, she’d had such a look of utter shock and amazement on her face that Dean had actually started to turn around to bolt. The only thing that had stopped him was Sam’s restraining grip on his arm.

Afterward, as she’d led them through the house and into the living room, the look had morphed into one of sympathy and pity. 

And that was . . . well that was almost worse. 

When was the last time that someone had looked at him like that? He honestly couldn’t remember. Pity wasn’t something he often inspired in people. Gratitude, lust, fear, anger - those were the kinds of things he inspired. 

Never pity

He knew she didn’t mean anything by it, but seeing it there in her eyes made him feel all that much more useless; helpless. All that much more grotesque. 

Luckily, by the time she indicates that they should take a seat on the couch, the pity is gone, to be replaced by a gentle professionalism as she slips into doctor mode. 

As both he and Sam make themselves comfortable, she proceeds to ask what seems like a hundred questions - what he’s been eating, how he’s been sleeping, how often he goes to the bathroom, how often the thing moves. As she asks, she’s also taking his pulse, his blood pressure, listening to his lungs and heart with a stethoscope and palpitating his abdomen. 

Finally, for the big finale, she brings out a tape measure and measures from the top to the bottom of his stomach.

Two seconds into the impromptu exam, he’d started wishing for a hole with his name on it to open up in the floor. Or for a nice, big meteor to hit the house. It doesn’t matter what the distraction is, as long as it ends this. The only thing that gets him through the exam is the solid warmth of Sam’s hand as it rubs soft circles at the small of his back. 

By the time it’s over and the measuring tape is being rewound, there are tears prickling at his eyes and the feeling of a heavy weight pressing against his chest.

Disgusted with himself for being so weak, he wipes at his face, hoping that no one’s noticed. But of course, everyone has. Sam leans in toward him and pats his arm reassuringly. “It’s over,” he whispers. 

Dr. Weiss crouches down so that she’s at his eye level and asks kindly, “Would you like some water, Dean?” 

Not trusting himself to speak, he simply nods. She smiles and then stands up and walks away, leaving him and Sam alone. 

“Are you ok?” Sam asks the minute she’s out of earshot.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I hate this.”

“What?” 

“All of it, Sam.” 

Sam just continues to look confused, so Dean adds, “I just didn’t think this would be so hard. I feel like a fucking specimen in a lab.” 

Sam gives his arm a light squeeze. “I know. And I’m sorry. But this has to be done if we’re gonna get this thing out of you.” 

Dean just shrugs.

“And I’ll be here every step of the way,” Sam adds.

Dean merely grunts in reply, but in fact, the words mean a lot to him. To know that he is not alone in this - it means the world.

The doctor comes back a few seconds later with the promised glass of water. Dean takes it gratefully and thanks her before taking a couple of long sips. 

He doesn’t speak again until he’s sure he’s regained some semblance of control. “Well, doc, what’s the verdict?”

She pulls up a chair opposite them both and clasps her hands together. “First of all, you are in remarkably good health considering the situation.” 

“I am?” 

She nods. “The steady diet of raw meat worried me, but you don’t seem to be suffering any ill effects from it at all.” 

“What about the fatigue?” Sam asks. “Why is he so tired all the time?”

“Fatigue is normal in pregnancy. Granted, this is to the extreme, but then everything about this situation seems to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“This pregnancy, for want of a better word, seems to be mimicking a normal pregnancy in a lot of aspects. Except of course that everything is . . . ” she falters as she searches for the right word. “Is . . . incredibly twisted. It’s actually quite extraordinary.” 

“Extraordinary isn’t quite the word I’d go with, doc,” Dean says.

She has the grace to blush. “Sorry.” 

“So what do you think, Dr. Weiss?” Sam asks. “Can you help us?”

She turns her head toward Sam. “Please, call me Jocelyn. And yes, I think I can. Obviously we can’t perform a regular abortion, but I should be able to take it out by performing a cesarian.” 

“Jesus, a cesarian,” Dean says as he slouches back against the couch. The now-familiar exhaustion is beginning to hit hard. It makes him feel like a man that’s worked too hard for too long. “You really think that’ll work?” he asks. 

“I do, although, I would like to do an ultrasound first. If that’s all right with you, Dean.”

Ultrasound. Cesarian. The fact that these words are being thrown around in reference to him is almost enough to make him want to burst into hysterical laughter. Either that or have another breakdown. “God, this just gets better and better.”

“I know it sounds strange, but I’d like to get a better idea of what I’m going to be dealing with.” 

Dean doesn’t answer. He can’t. He knows he’s about two seconds from losing it again and he’d really rather not do it in front of her.

In the end it is Sam that answers for him. “We’ll do whatever you need us to do. Won’t we, Dean?”

“Yeah,” he replies at length. “As long as you can get it out of me, you can do whatever you want.” 

Dr. Weiss looks relieved, as if she had expected to be told no. “Good.”

“So when do we do it?”

“We should be able to do it all on Saturday. The office is closed for the weekend, so we’ll have full access to everything and no one will be around to ask questions.”

Dean nods, slow and calm, while inside his heart feels like it’s racing at a hundred miles a minute.

Saturday is only three days away.

Three days. 

He looks over at Sam and flashes a smile. It’s tired and brief, but it’s a genuine one and, damn, but it feels good. Sam flashes his own wide smile at him before turning to the doctor. “Dr. Weiss . . . ” 

“Jocelyn,” she reminds him. 

“Jocelyn,” he amends. “I don’t think there’s any way to express how grateful we are to you for everything you’re doing. This is . . . ” he stops and shakes his head. “Well, you just don’t know how badly we needed to hear that news.” 

“What he said, doc. Really. You have no idea.”

Dr. Weiss laughs and reaches out to grasp both of their hands. “Believe me, I’m glad to help.”

It’s times like these Dean wishes he were better with words. 

How do you thank the person who’s giving you your life back?

But Sam seems to have no problem with it. He thanks her again, eloquently, sincerely, before standing up. “It’s starting to get late and we should really get going. We still have to get to a motel and check in.” 

Dr. Weiss stands as well. “You can stay here if you’d like. I have a guest room. And an air mattress. Or a very comfortable couch.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, we wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if it was going to be an imposition.” 

Sam looks down at Dean, leaving it up to him. “Dean?” 

Dean barely manages not to scoff. Like there’s anything to think about. Staying in a nice house in a nice bed versus being snuck into yet another cheap motel like some dirty secret? 

“A real bed sounds better than a motel, Sammy.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, as Dean lies in the middle of the absurdly comfortable bed, his hand rubbing absently at his stomach, his thoughts begin to drift. There’s a tingling sensation, like little charges of electricity, running through his entire body. His mother would have called them butterflies. But it’s not nervousness that he feels or even excitement. 

What he feels is hope. 

For the first time in a long time, he feels like maybe things are going to be ok. In three days they’ll do the ultrasound and the operation and they’ll get rid of the monstrosity inside of him. In three days he’ll be a person again. He’ll be a man again. 

In three days, he’ll be Dean Winchester again. 

And he and his brother can finally start to rebuild what was almost taken from them.

These are the thoughts that swim around his head as his eyes close and he slides into sleep. 

And for the first time since the attack, he does not dream. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Are you comfortable?” 

Dean treats Dr. Weiss to his patented death glare. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

She pats his arm absently, completely unfazed. “You’re doing fine.” 

The feel of Sam’s hand grasping his own distracts him and he turns his head. His brother is perched next to him on a stool, peering down at him with concern. “How are you doing?” 

“I gotta pee, the table is like a rock and this stuff on my stomach is cold. How do you think I’m doing?”

Sam smiles fondly down at him and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “You know what I think? I think you just like to bitch.”

“You know what I think? I think you’re a d---”

“Guys, we’re ready,” Dr. Weiss interrupts.

Dean glances at Sam and they exchange nervous smiles. The bitching, the jokes that they’ve been exchanging for the past half hour are their way of making this bearable. A distraction, one that only half-assed works. 

But it’s time now and they both turn toward the monitor as if following a siren call.

Dr. Weiss places the transducer against Dean’s gel-slicked belly and presses down. A moment later an image comes up on the monitor. Dean stares at it, but he can’t make heads or tails out of what he sees. To him it just looks like a black and green blob.

“That’s it? That’s what inside of me?” 

“That’s it.” 

“It doesn’t look like anything at all.”

Dr. Weiss moves the transducer to the left side of his stomach. “You just have to know what you’re looking for.” 

“What do you see, Jocelyn?” Sam asks. 

She tilts her head to the side as she stares at the image on the screen. “Now, that’s interesting.” 

“What?” 

“There doesn’t seem to be one umbilical cord. It almost looks as if there’s several, but all very thin. Fibrous almost.” 

“What does that mean?” Sam asks.

She looks at both Sam and Dean in turn. “I...I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She moves the transducer again, this time to the right, pressing in deep enough to make Dean wince just a little.

“Hmm . . . ” 

“What?”

She presses just a little harder. “It’s just that . . . hmm . . . ”

“Doc, I’m sorry, but you can’t say ‘hmm’ like that when you’ve got a pregnant man on your ultrasound table.” 

This seems to rouse her and she turns from the monitor with a blush. “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . you said you expected this thing to be very badly deformed?” 

“It’s supposed to be,” Sam answers. “That’s what all the records say. Why?” 

She looks back at the monitor. “Because what I’m looking at here is a normal, healthy, twenty-two week old baby girl.”

“That’s not possible,” Dean breathes out.

“It’s . . . ” she begins.

“You’re reading it wrong!” he yells, practically rising up off the table.

Sam squeezes his hand. “Dean.” 

“Tell her she’s wrong, Sam. Tell her it’s not possible.” 

“Are you sure, Jocelyn?” 

“It’s pretty clear, Sam.” 

Dean falls back against the table; tired, defeated. “It’s supposed to be a monster,” he whispers. 

Sam leans down close. “It is a monster, Dean. No matter what it looks like, it’s still a demon.” 

He straightens and looks at the doctor. “You’ll still take it out right? This doesn’t change anything?” 

Dr. Weiss is frowning, and Dean can read the pity in her eyes. “No, of course not. We’ll take it out right now.”

He turns away from her, looks across the room at the blank wall. “Let’s do this then.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, Dean lies on a table in one of the exam rooms, minutes away from going under. Minutes away from the end of the nightmare.

“When Sam puts the mask on your face, you’re going to breathe in deeply and count backward slowly from twenty to zero,” Dr. Weiss instructs. “All right?” 

“Got it, doc,” Dean says as he looks up at Sam. 

His brother is standing behind him, bending over him slightly, the surgical mask hiding everything but his eyes. For a brief moment Dean imagines he sees those eyes shining gold and he feels a surge of panic. But when he blinks and looks again, all he sees is Sam. 

“You ready?” his brother asks. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.” 

Sam nods and places the mask over his nose and mouth. 

“You’re gonna be fine, big brother.” 

“I’ll see you on the other side, little brother.” 

He gives a brief thumbs up before taking in a deep breath and starting to count. He’s concentrating on following the doctor’s instructions, making it all the way to thirteen before he goes under. 

He does not feel the first slice into his abdomen. 

He is blissfully unaware as Dr. Weiss begins to snip away at the fibers connecting his body to the fetus.

He does not hear the accelerating sounds of the machines that he’s hooked up to or Sam’s frenzied shouts of panic. 

He does not hear the doctor cursing like a truck driver. Does not feel the thing inside of him twisting crazily within his body. 

He does not hear Dr. Weiss’ voice lose its detached air as she shouts, “We’re losing him! Sam, we’re losing him!”


	7. Chapter 7

When Dean wakes, it is an almost immediate snap into consciousness. There is no long, slow rise to awareness here. One second he is out and the next second he is staring up at a white ceiling, blinking at it dumbly and wondering where the hell he is and why he’s so sore. 

Then a familiar voice calls his name and a warm, large hand envelops his own. 

And he remembers. He remembers everything. 

Even as he turns his head to face Sam, his free hand is moving down to his stomach. 

Breathlessly he touches it, expecting to feel flat planes; maybe a small leftover bump. What he feels instead is a much too familiar rounded curve. 

And the kick of what can only be a tiny foot.

“Sam?” he asks. It is one word, one syllable, but it contains a hundred questions. 

He trusts Sam to provide the answers. He trusts him to understand. 

But if Sam does, then he’s doing his best to play dumb. Instead of answering the unspoken questions, Sam leans forward and brushes his hand through Dean’s hair. “How’re you feeling? Jocelyn says you’re going to be sore for a little while, but that you should be up and about in no time.” 

Dean shakes his head a little and forces his voice through dry lips. “Why?” 

Sam’s face crumbles at the sound of the word and his eyes go dark with sadness. 

“We almost lost you, Dean,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “When Jocelyn started to take it out, you started to die. As soon as she left it alone, you were fine. Don’t you see? It was going to take you with it. We had no choice.” 

Dean searches his brother’s face for a long time, not even sure of what he’s hoping to find. A lie maybe? Some indication that this is all just a bad dream? 

But there is nothing to read in Sam’s face but the truth. And the truth is that there is no hope. There never was. 

And he was a fool to believe differently. 

He pulls his hand away from Sam’s with a desperate tug and speaks in short, clipped tones, biting out the words rather than saying them. “Then you should have let me die.” 

And then he turns away, letting his eyes flutter closed. 

“Dean . . . ” 

“Please leave, Sam.” 

“Dean, don’t do this.” 

“Get. Out.”

“Dean.” 

Sam turns his name into a plea, and it is so heartfelt that Dean almost turns around. He almost turns around to make it better for his brother. Sam is his biggest weakness; he always has been. But not even Sam can make him turn around to face this. 

He does not turn. He does not speak. He does nothing at all but wait. Eventually Sam’s hand lifts from his hair. 

“All right, Dean,” he sighs. “I’ll leave you alone. For now.” 

Dean swallows heavily but otherwise does not move until he hears Sam’s footsteps moving away from him and the door to the room close. Once he is sure that he is alone, he opens his eyes and stares blankly at the wall in front of him. 

He lays like that for a very long time, simply staring; feeling the thing within him move. 

He feels that he should be upset. Maybe crying. Maybe yelling and railing at the unfairness of it all. Definitely fighting. 

He’s fought so many things for so long he didn’t think it was possible for him not to fight. It’s always been as natural to him as breathing. 

But not anymore. Because to fight you have to be able to feel. And right now he feels nothing.   
It is a curious thing, to feel so numb inside that your own impending death matters not one iota.

Curious, but not unpleasant. At least this way there’s no pain. 

His fingers ghost over his stomach when another kick from within grabs his attention. His thoughts slide backwards in time, to the sight of an almost indecipherable image on a monitor and to Dr. Weiss’ voice telling him that the monster inside of him was really a healthy, little girl. 

“You know,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper, “your daddy may be an evil motherfucker, but he’s no idiot. He’s thought of every way to make my life a living hell. Including making you human.”

A long, lazy movement from left to right within his body is Dean’s only answer.

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I deserved it, right?” 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They come to him the next day, Sam and Dr. Weiss, posing a united front as they explain the plan that they cooked up the night before. 

They speak quickly, their voices fighting for dominance over the other, sometimes blending into one another, so that he can only make out half of what they say. 

“Low viability . . . ” 

“Wasn’t ready to be born . . . ” 

“It tried to take its host - you - with it.” 

“We’ll try again, at almost six months.” 

“Should be viable. You shouldn’t be in any danger.”

“Both you and Sam can stay here, of course.” 

“This will work, Dean.” 

Dean listens to their words without bothering to tell them that he’s a dead man no matter what they do. Let them have their illusions and their pretty lies. He knows better.

He nods. “Sure. Whatever.” 

Sam beams at him. “This is gonna work, Dean. You’ll see. The next few months aren’t gonna be easy, but I’m here and we’ll get through this together.” 

Dean reaches out and squeezes Sam’s shoulder, pleased to see his brother smile even wider. 

No, he could never take away Sam’s need to believe. He pastes on his own smile, hoping it doesn’t look too fake, and tries for sincerity. “I know, Sammy.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean quickly discovers that when you’re simply biding your time until your death, you have some good days and a whole lot of bad days. 

And sometimes old ghosts make their presence known. 

Sometime around the third month, Sam puts his hand on Dean’s arm to steady him as they walk from the living room to the bedroom. 

Dean stops and pushes Sam away in a panic. “Don’t touch me!” he shouts before he can even think about what he’s saying.

Sam steps away from him, looking stricken. “What’s the matter?” 

But Dean can’t answer. He’s panting and trembling and sweating all at the same time. He shakes his head and runs as fast as his body will allow him to the nearest bathroom where he throws up all the raw meat he had for dinner. 

He spends the rest of the night curled up in bed, remembering in vivid detail what it was like to be held down and fucked til he bled. 

He doesn’t let Sam come near him for an entire week. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the beginning of the fourth month, his lower back starts to ache. Sometimes so badly that Sam has to sit behind him and rub it, long fingers pressing into his skin so hard that it creates even more pain. But it’s a delicious pain. ‘Counter pressure’, Sam calls it. 

Whatever it is, it helps and Dean can’t get enough.

The massage always seems to end with him sagging against Sam’s body while his brother’s hands card through his hair. 

He revels in the feeling of being taken care of for as long as he can before a deeply ingrained sense of pride makes him push Sam away. “Hands off, Sammy,” he says in mock irritation. 

And Sam always complies, albeit with a knowing smile. 

Apparently he’s not fooling anybody. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the middle of the fourth month, he wakes up from a nightmare. Not wanting to go back to sleep he forces himself up and out of bed. The sound of hushed voices draws him to the family room. He stands just outside of it, hidden by the wall and listens as Sam talk to Dr. Weiss.

“I just wish . . . I just wish you could have seen him before all this happened. I wish you could have gotten to know the real Dean.” 

“What do you mean, ‘the real Dean’?” 

“Before this, Dean was . . . Well, he was incredible. He was like a force of nature, you know? Always ready for a challenge. Always ready to fight. Always ready to help someone in trouble. And he always had a smart-ass remark for everything; no situation was too grim. To tell you the truth, sometimes being around him could be a bit exhausting. And sometimes he was a plain, old pain in the ass. But still. He was . . . kind of larger than life.”

“Sam.”

“You would have liked him.” 

“Sam, you’re talking about him like he’s dead.”

“I know. It’s just that, sometimes I think he did die back in those woods. Not physically, obviously, but inside.” Dean hears Sam’s voice crack slightly. “I want to help him, Joss, but I don’t know how. How can I help him if I’m part of the problem?” 

“I don’t think Dean sees it that way.”

There’s silence then and Dean leans forward a little, just enough to peer around the wall. He sees Sam, one hand covering his face, shoulders shaking. He sees Dr. Weiss with her arms wrapped around him, rubbing his back. Her lips are moving, so she’s speaking, obviously whispering something to him. Probably something soothing. Comforting. 

Please help him, doc. God knows I can’t.

He backs silently away from them, feeling like an intruder in their moment. 

Back in his room, he wonders at how strange it is to hear his brother eulogize him on the couch to a woman they barely know. But he can’t help think that Sam is right, that some part of him did die back in those woods. 

He’s crying before he even realizes it; the tears coming soft and slow. 

He wipes at them savagely with the back of his hand. “Fuck this,” he growls in his best menacing voice.

But the tears aren’t impressed. They just keep coming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the middle of the fifth month, the final month, the physical discomfort of the faux-pregnancy almost obliterates everything else. 

His stomach is huge now, so huge that he can no longer sleep on his side and he has to relearn how to walk because his damn center of gravity’s changed. His back is now in constant agony, as is his leg since the thing inside decided to perch itself on his sciatic nerve. 

The worst of it is the exhaustion, which has reached a level he’d never thought possible. He can barely move, because even walking from the bed to the bathroom drains all his energy and his sleeping habits have become more feline than human since he now spends two-thirds of the day asleep. 

The little time that he is awake, he spends in a black haze of depression, merely existing; counting down the days until the demon at last claims its final victory. 

One night, in what has become the customary ritual of this last month, Dean finishes up his meal then has Sam support him as he walks to the bathroom before retiring for the night. 

Sam helps him to lie down on the bed and draws the covers up over his body. “Can I get you anything?” 

Dean shakes his head. “No, thanks.” 

Sam, as always, looks reluctant to leave. “Ok. Well, if you need anything, just yell. We’re right outside.” And with that, he begins to turn around, thinking himself dismissed. 

Usually, Dean watches him go before turning his head to the side and falling asleep almost instantly. But this time, despite the need for sleep already tugging at him, he reaches out and grabs Sam’s wrist. Sam stills and looks down. “Dean?” 

“I need to talk to you.” 

Sam, looking a bit stunned at the new development, quickly sits down on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, sure. What is it?”

Dean opens his mouth to begin, then snaps it shut again. He shakes his head. “I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this. I didn’t think I ever would.” 

“What? What is it?” 

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, preparing himself for the bombshell he’s about to drop. “I tried to kill myself a few months ago.” 

Sam looks completely horrified, just as Dean knew he would. “What? When?”

“A few days before we came here. I uh . . . I went into the bathroom while you were asleep and I used a razor to cut into my wrist.” 

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Dean.”

Dean waits for Sam to get through the shock of it, knowing that he’ll catch on quickly enough.   
And he does. It only takes a few seconds for Sam’s face to go from mortified to puzzled as he says, “But you’re ok. How are you ok if you cut your wrist?”

“Remember Wolverine in X-Men?” he asks. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

“The healing powers? Remember?” At Sam’s continued blank look, Dean gives in and explains. “The demon healed me. Or baby demon healed me. I don’t know which. I just know that it wouldn’t let me die.” 

Sam is silent for a few moments, more than likely absorbing what he’s just been told. “Why would you do something like that?” he finally asks.

“Hello? Sam? Have you not been paying attention? Weren’t you in those woods with me?” 

“Don’t be an asshole,” Sam snaps. “What happened to ‘we’re going to get through this together?’” 

“That’s your little bullshit slogan, not mine!” 

Sam backs down immediately. “Ok, look I’m sorry. I’m not mad. I just . . . it just freaks me out that you tried to commit suicide, Dean. I’m not mad. I’m just . . . ” 

“Look, Sam. Back then, I was hurting really bad and I didn’t think that I could live with what had happened. And I guess I figured if I was gonna die anyway, then I’d rather die on my terms. Mine. Not that bastard’s.”

Sam frowns but does not interrupt. 

“Then we came here and I actually started to believe that things might be ok. And not just with the whole ‘die a horrible death’ thing, but with us. With me.”

He laughs bitterly at his naivete. “Course that all went to hell.” 

“Dean . . . ”

He continues, needing to finish. “After the operation didn’t work I figured I was going to die no matter what. And I accepted it. Made peace with it. I’ve said it before - it’s a dangerous gig. And this time I just happened to draw the mother of all the short straws.” 

“Dean, why are you telling me all this? Why now?”

“See, that’s the thing, Sammy. The closer I actually get to having this thing go down, the more I realize something.”

“What’s that?” 

He pauses, fights the urge to just close his eyes and surrender to sleep. He’s never been good at this confessional stuff anyway. But still, he’s got to say this. It has been eating away at him ever since he had his big epiphany only days ago.

“I don’t want to die.”

“Oh, Dean.”

“I don’t want to go, Sam,” he says. The words come quickly, easier now that the confession has been made. “There’s so much . . . so much still left for me to do. And, and I don’t know if I can ever be the same person that I was. But I at least want the chance to try, you know? I just want the chance.” 

The words grind to a halt as he is forced to stop for breath. 

He tries again, slow this time; quiet. “I’m scared, Sam. I’m really scared.”

Sam leans forward, his stare so intense that it seems to bore into Dean’s very soul. Then he brings his hand down to Dean’s face, and with infinitesimal care, brushes away a stray tear. 

And God dammit, when the hell had that happened?

“Have you noticed that whenever you talk about dying, I always insist that you’re not? I refuse to even entertain the idea?” Sam asks.

“Well, yeah.”

“Do you know why I do that?” 

“No.” 

“Because I can’t face losing you, Dean. I can’t even face the possibility of it. Mom’s gone. Dad’s gone. You’re all I have and I can’t do this alone. But . . . but I’m not an idiot. I know how dangerous this is. I know what the risks to you are.” 

Sam drops his head into his hands and grunts with frustration before looking back up. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m scared shitless too. I’m so scared that I stick my head in the sand and I hide from what’s going on.” 

“But,” he adds with a humorless laugh. “But I guess maybe it’s time to stop doing that. And now that I’ve admitted to being scared . . . well maybe we can be scared together?”

“We’ll be scared together? That’s all you’ve got?” Dean asks with a shaky smile. It’s strange, but now that he’s said his peace, he feels lighter, like the proverbial huge weight has been lifted. 

Besides, he can only handle so much of these special, sharing moments before he starts getting antsy and the sarcasm starts kicking in. 

He knows that Sam understands enough not to push.

“That’s the best I’ve got right now,” Sam answers. 

Dean drags his hands across his face, ridding himself of the tears. “You realize I’ve cried more in the past few months than I’ve cried like, well . . . ever?” 

“I don’t know about that. Remember the time you crashed your bike on the curb? You were twelve and you were crying like a banshee.” 

“Dude, I was like seven. A guy can still cry at seven.”

“Not around our dad. He told you to suck it up, remember?” 

“Which I proceeded to do.” 

“Yeah, right. You cried even harder.”

“You’ve taken too many hits to the head. You don’t remember things right.”

That elicits a small laugh from Sam. Dean smiles, wishing that he could do the same. A moment later, his smile turns into a yawn as fatigue once again rears its head.

“You look tired. I should let you get some rest.” 

“Yeah. And you should get to Jocelyn. She’s probably out there pining for you.” 

Sam ducks his head, looking embarrassed. “No.”

“She likes you, you know.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You like her too, right?”

“You know what? The role of matchmaker does not suit you.”

“Yeah, whatever, dude.” 

Sam blinks, face turning serious once more.

“Thank you for trusting me with that.” 

Before he can reply, Sam is leaning down, planting a small, quick kiss on his forehead. “I love you, Dean,” he whispers before standing up and stepping away from the bed. 

It all happens so fast that for a moment he wonders if he’s losing it completely and imagining things. But the lingering warmth on his forehead tells him differently. 

“It’s almost over,” Sam says. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” 

And because there’s nothing else to say that hasn’t already been said, Dean rolls his eyes. “Well, don’t just stand there staring at me. Go get her, tiger.” 

Sam scowls and flips him off, but the scowl is almost instantly replaced by a tentative, crooked grin.

Dean returns it, then closes his eyes. 

He’s said what he’s needed to say. And now that it’s done, he can no longer battle the need for sleep. 

He’s out before Sam even closes the door.


	8. Chapter 8

After months of riding a brutal emotional roller coaster, full of precious few highs and far too many lows, the big day finally arrives. 

They are a mere week away from the six-month due date - as close as they can comfortably come to that deadline without risking an early labor. 

Sam and Dr. Weiss had long ago decided not to go back to the clinic for the operation, feeling it too public a place where too many things could go wrong. Instead, they have been smuggling equipment and supplies into the house for months, essentially turning Dean’s bedroom into a miniature operating room. 

In the midst of all the equipment, Dean lies on a borrowed gurney and stares down at his body in a mixture of abhorrence and wonderment while Dr. Weiss and Sam busy themselves with preparations on the other side of the room. The tubes leading out of his body, the beeping of the machines, his swollen belly colored orange - it is all so ridiculously surreal that all he can seem to think is that he’s really tired of feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole. 

If Alice had been raped by a fire-setting, murdering demon that is. 

The thought ignites a fit of mad giggles which grab Sam’s attention, and a moment later, he is at Dean’s side. 

Dean looks up at his brother and manages to stifle the laughter. “Not exactly my best moment, is it?”

“You’re the one who wanted to be awake for this, remember?” Sam’s tone is light, but his face is creased with worry, making him appear much older than his twenty-three years.

“You think after all this time, I’m gonna miss the big finale?” Dean asks. “I don’t think so. I just wish I didn’t have to be half-naked.” 

“I don’t think Jocelyn cares. Do you?” 

“I’m a doctor,” she says with a wink from across the room. “I’ve seen it all before.” 

Dean smiles at her, but the smile crumbles away as he looks back up at Sam. Suddenly, he feels too tired to keep up the pretense. “So, um . . . you’re going for the quick snap to the neck, right?” he asks nervously.

“Yeah, about that Dean,” Sam begins. From the tone alone, Dean can tell that whatever’s about to come next isn’t going to be good. “I’ve been thinking.” 

“Ok.” 

“I don’t think I can do it.” 

Not quite sure what Sam is referring to, or more truthfully, not allowing himself to believe it, he merely says, “Excuse me?” 

“I don’t think I can kill it. Knowing it’s a little girl and all.” 

For a long moment all Dean can do is stare while his mind struggles to understand the ramifications of what was just said. At length he is able to slowly push words out of his mouth, words that can only convey a fraction of his bewilderment. “But . . . but . . . you said,” he stutters. “You’re the one who said it was still a demon no matter what it looked like.”

Sam drops down to his knees so that they are eye to eye. And like a politician before election day, he begins to make his argument in his most earnest voice. “I know, but I’ve been thinking. What’s to say that this baby’s inherently evil? What if she’s born a clean slate? An innocent?” 

“I can’t believe we’re having a nature vs. nurture debate NOW, Sam!” 

“I just . . . ” 

“Look,” he says, cutting off his brother. “I’ve thought of it too, don’t you think I haven’t? I’m the one with the little girl in his stomach. But Sam, there’s no choice here. Think about it. What are we supposed to do, drop her off at an orphanage and hope she doesn’t turn evil? Raise her?” 

Sam lowers his head and speaks so softly that Dean has to strain to hear. “Would that be such a bad thing?” 

The question is like a sucker punch straight to Dean’s gut. If he’d been standing he would have been dropped to his knees. 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them, surprised that he can sound so calm when his insides are a churning mess. “Sam. I would think of it every time I looked at her. It’s been hard enough to get to a place where I could look at you and see only you; see you without reliving what happened. I don’t think that I can go through it again. Don’t you see that?”

Dean will never know what Sam’s next words would have been, because just at that moment, the doctor calls out to them both, letting them know it’s time. 

Sam bolts to his feet. “Already?” he asks. 

Dr. Weiss walks over to them and stands on Dean’s other side. Her eyes, wide and shining above her mask, are very kind

“Yes, Sam. It’s time.”

She tilts her head toward Dean. 

“Ok, remember, I need you to keep your arms to the side at all times.”

He looks out at his arms; his very own crucifixion pose. He nods. “I know.” 

“If you can’t, Dean, we’ll have to strap them down.” 

The thought of that happening is enough to make his heart pound even harder, bringing panic on top of fear. “I got it, doc. I swear.” 

“You’re not going to feel any pain, but you’re going to feel some tugging. It might be a little uncomfortable but that’s the extent of it.” 

“Ok, got it.” 

“And Dean?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m going to do everything I can to get you through this.”

“I know, doc,” he says. He doesn’t even bother fighting the detestable yet familiar tears that spring up in his eyes. He’s so far past the point of manly pride he wouldn’t recognize it if it bit him.

As Dr. Weiss moves down to stand next to his stomach, she calls out for Sam.

Sam goes to move, but abruptly jerks to a stop. He turns his head until his gaze falls on Dean. 

“Dean, I . . . ” 

Dean nods and swallows past the constriction in his throat. There is so much to say, yet speech is beyond him now. Apparently beyond both of them - even for Sam who lives for moments like these.

Besides, he sees it all in Sam’s eyes. All the fear, all the worry. And all the love. It couldn’t be transmitted any clearer if Sam were shouting it in his ear. 

“I know, Sammy. I know.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Ten minutes into the operation, Dean thinks to himself that the doctor was right. It doesn’t hurt at all, but the tugging is kind of a bitch. 

He lifts his head and looks down, desperate to catch a glimpse of what’s happening, but all he sees is Sam and the doctor bending over him. He has to fight the urge to prop himself up on his elbows.

He’s about to ask what’s going on for the hundredth time when the gasping cry of a newborn fills the air.

“Guys?” 

“I’ve got her, Dean. I’ve got her,” Dr. Weiss yells out over the bawling.

“What does it look like?” he asks. 

It is Sam who answers. “Like a little girl, Dean.”

Dean drops his head back and stares up at the ceiling. A little girl. He’d been hanging onto the hope that it would be a deformed monster. That the ultrasound had been wrong or that the deformities would develop later. 

Something. 

Anything but this.

So while Sam takes the baby and puts her wriggling form into the bassinet and Dr. Weiss closes, Dean continues to stare and tries imagine the sound a baby’s neck makes when it’s snapped.

“Ok, we’re done. Dean, you did great, honey. You made it through with flying colors.” 

The sheer joy in Dr. Weiss’ voice is what gets Dean’s attention, drawing him away from his thoughts and back to the here and now. 

It takes him several seconds to realize what has just been said. 

“I’m ok?”

“You’re ok, Dean. It’s over.”

He looks down at his seemingly corporeal, very bloody, body. 

This certainly doesn’t feel like a dream. And he’s pretty sure that the afterlife would hold something a little different. 

Which means that there’s only one other option. 

He is alive. 

He looks up to see that Sam is standing beside him again. There are tears in his brother’s eyes, tears that he knows match his own. He doesn’t mind them, however. These are good tears.  
“I’m alive,” he says breathlessly. 

Sam rips the mask from his face and nods vigorously. “You’re alive.” 

“I’m ok. I’m really ok.” He repeats the words so that he can taste them, taking them into himself until they become real. 

Sam cups his cheek tenderly. “Told you you would be, you dork.” 

And at that, Dean breaks down, managing to utter a small, “Oh God,” before dissolving into sobbing laughter. 

Sam bends down and wraps him up in an awkward hug, and for a few minutes all they can do is give in to the raw emotion; helpless before it even as they revel in it. 

It is Dean who recovers first. Sniffling and wiping at his eyes, he gives a shaky laugh. “You know, this cheating death thing is getting pretty old.”

Sam’s face breaks out into the brightest smile he’s ever seen. It is like pure sunshine. “No kidding, man.” 

Just then a loud wail draws their attention to the other side of the room. The baby, which had grown quiet, is now making herself heard. 

“Um, doc?” 

“Yeah, Dean?”

“Can I see it? Her?” He shakes his head. “Whatever it is?”

“Of course you can,” she says before moving toward the bassinet.

“That’s all right, doctor. I’ll take it from here.” 

It is technically the voice of a stranger, but Dean recognizes the menace in the tone all too well. How could he not, when he still hears the voice in his dreams? When it still echoes inside his head when he is awake?

As the owner of the voice comes into view, a terrible dread seizes his heart, squeezing it until it aches. It is a man, and he is dressed in a t-shirt, shorts and sandals and the only extraordinary thing about him is how absolutely ordinary he is, from his clothes down to the scent of freshly mowed grassed that still clings to him.

“Who are you?” he hears Sam ask.

“An old friend.” 

And before anyone can react, the man sends both Sam and Dr. Weiss flying through the air with a tilt of his head. They hit separate walls with tremendous force, staying there like flies on glue paper.

As the man saunters over to the bassinet, moving with the lazy aim of someone going for a Sunday stroll, Sam tries to push himself from the wall, barking out death threats and using words that would make a sailor blush.

The man ignores Sam’s rantings and the doctor’s quiet whimpers of fear. Once at the bassinet, he pulls out the child, wraps it snugly in a blanket, and cradles it to his chest.

Then he walks over to Dean. His yellow eyes crinkle in the corners as he grins. “Miss me?”

Fear makes Dean’s throat close up, rendering speech impossible. But there is also anger there as well. Anger at this thing that has so callously seen fit to ruin his life. Anger at the fact that it never seems to fucking end.

“You touch him and I will fucking kill you, I swear.” 

The demon still doesn’t spare Sam a glance. “Dean, tell your brother that if he doesn’t shut up, I’ll have to slice his vocal cords open.” 

There’s something in those golden eyes that tells Dean that the threat is not idle. 

So he forces the words out, even if they’re barely more than a whisper. “Be quiet, Sam.”

“No, Dean . . . ” 

He tilts his head back so that he can see his brother. Looking straight into his eyes, he pleads, “Sam, don’t.”

And Sam, miraculously, listens, grunting only once in frustration before going silent. 

“Much better,” the demon says in approval. “Now where were we? Oh yes. You did very well, Dean,” he says. “So well.” While one hand continues to cradle the baby, the other one reaches out and caresses the side of Dean’s face. 

It takes every ounce of strength that Dean possesses not to flinch away from the poisonous touch. But still, some things are beyond his control, as evidenced by the fact that he can’t seem to make his body stop trembling. 

“Although, I have to admit,” the demon continues. “I didn’t see this coming. I assumed my progeny would be munching on your intestines right about now.” 

“So sorry to disappoint you.”

Ah, there. His voice is back. With a little bit of sarcasm even. Good.

“No, no disappointment at all. I’m actually quite pleased. You truly are special. Maybe more so than your brother here. To give me a child that can pass for human. Can you imagine? A demon that can walk around as human without having to possess one? Do you know how many centuries my kind have tried, and failed, to achieve this?” 

It begins as a small kernel of horror deep in the pit of his stomach. And with every word the thing utters, the horror grows and spreads until it threatens to choke him. And even as Dean shakes his head in desperate denial, he knows that what the demon is saying is the truth. 

“To think that when I started this, it was all about revenge. And now . . . well, now I’ve stumbled upon my very own missing link.” 

“No,” his manages to utter, his voice cracked and raw. 

“I’d kill you now, but it’s probably best to keep you around. Just in case I decide to try this again. What do you say?”

Oh, God. He’s going to be sick. He’s going to be sick right here and it’s all just going to slide back down his throat and choke him because he can’t move. 

“Ah, but you wanted to see the child, didn’t you?” 

The demon leans down, not waiting for an answer. He maneuvers the baby so that she is at Dean’s eye level. 

“Look at her, Dean. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Like a puppet on a string, he turns his head. The sight that greets him is enough to take his breath away. 

She is beautiful. 

She doesn’t look like a monster conceived in the vilest sin. She looks like a newborn. An innocent, tiny newborn.

Then the demon, wearing his everyman mask so well, leans down and kisses him. It is a very gentle kiss; almost compassionate, almost tender. 

Dean closes his eyes and accepts it. Not because he wants to, but because he is too numb to do much of anything else.

The demon pulls away, straightens and brings the baby close to his body. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, our daughter needs tending to.”

And with a turn of his heel, and an animated, wicked laugh, he is gone.


	9. Chapter 9

After four days of lying in bed and allowing his body to recuperate, Dean turns to Sam and tells him that he wants to go outside. 

“Outside?” 

“Not to Disneyland or anything, Sam. Just to the backyard.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, but is at Dean’s side in a flash. 

With his help, Dean shuffles out to the back patio, where they both take seats in the late afternoon sun. 

Dean leans his head back, closes his eyes and lets out a long, contented sigh. After so long trapped indoors, this feels like nirvana. “Oh man, this is nice,” he says. “Now I know why people bake in the sun for hours.”

“You like it so much, maybe you could become a professional beach bum.”

He opens his eyes and gives Sam a sideways glance. “Is the pay any good?”

They both chuckle at that and for a moment Dean can pretend that all is right with the world; that things are normal and good.

But then Sam has to open his mouth and ruin it.

“Feeling ok?”

Dean sighs; should have known it was too good to be true. “Peachy keen.” 

“Dean, I think . . . ” 

“So,” Dean says quickly, desperate to derail the meaningful conversation that he’s sure is coming. “You think the doc’s sick of us yet? I mean, we’re kind of like roaches here - we’ve invaded her house and now we won’t leave.”

Sam shakes his head, sending his hair bouncing around his face. Dean thinks absently that his brother is dire need of a good haircut. “She’s not sick of us. I think she likes having us around.” 

“She likes having you around, you mean.” 

“No. She likes having us around.” 

“Yeah, whatever, dude.”

“Dean, I . . . ”

Oh God, not again.

Dean tries another diversionary tactic. “We’ll never be able to pay her back for all she’s done for us, you know,” he says.

Sam seems a little irritated at being interrupted, but he still takes the bait. “Yeah, I know. I’ve talked to her about it, but she keeps insisting that she’s paying it forward. From when Bobby’s friend saved her and her sister’s life.” 

“Paying it forward? What does that mean?” 

“Don’t you ever watch anything besides action movies?”

“Not unless you drag me to them.”

“Ha ha.”

Dean gives a quick smirk before turning his attention to the expanse of grass laid out before him. “Seriously though,” he says after a minute. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

“So in Dean-speak that means that you’re ready to move on.” 

Trying to keep his tone light, he says, “There’s a lot of work to be done out there, Sammy. Somebody’s gotta stop the evil.”

“Dean, come on, you don’t really think you’re ready, do you? Physically, you can barely walk. And mentally . . . ” He turns away, jaw set so tight that it looks like it’s going to shatter.

“And what, Sam? What were you gonna say? That mentally I’m not ready cause I’m nuts? Cause I’ve lost it? Cause I’m nothing but a weak, whimpering coward?” 

Sam turns back to him, his eyes blazing with anguish. There is a flutter in his voice that makes Dean think he is about two seconds from crying. But when that big body leans toward him, Dean can’t help but cringe away even when he knows that the danger is all in his mind. 

“You know that’s not what I was going to say,” Sam says, oblivious to Dean’s reaction. “You’re the strongest person I know, Dean. You always have been. But you’re not Superman. And with as much as you’ve been through, I . . . I just think you need to give yourself a little more time, that’s all.” 

Dean kicks at a tuft of grass under his shoe and mumbles, “I can get better on the road.”

“Besides,” Sam continues as if Dean hadn’t spoken. “This thing about getting back on the hunt? You don’t have to pretend with me. I know what this is about. I know why you want to get back out there.”

“And just what do you think you know?” 

“That it’s not over for you. Is it?” 

Dean sighs, looks down at his hands. There’s no point in lying, not when Sam is in detective mode. “No, Sam. It’s not over.” 

“I thought so.”

“It’s not about revenge, Sam. I swear.” 

Sam gives him a look that declares bullshit. 

“All right, so it’s partially about revenge. But it’s more. I have to find her. I feel like . . . ” For a moment, he chokes, unable to bring the words up past the lump in his throat. And just when he’d been starting to think he was past the crying nonsense.

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know,” he says, getting himself under control just in time. “Like she’s my responsibility or something. If she is evil and I’ve let her loose out there, then I’ve gotta stop her.”

“And if she’s not?” Sam challenges. “What if we get to her quick enough and she’s not evil? What if she’s just a little girl?”

“If she’s not . . . Well, I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“Dean . . . ” 

“Sam, I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Sam puts his hands up in surrender. “All right. Fine. We should go inside anyway. I told Joss that I’d help her with dinner. And you should probably get some rest.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve been lying down for four months straight. I’d rather stay out here.” 

“You sure?”

“Just for a little while.”

The way Sam stares at him makes Dean feel like a bug under a microscope. He’s just about to tell Sam to knock it off, that he’s a big boy, when his brother stands up. “All right. I’ll come get you for dinner?”

“Yeah, sounds great.” 

Sam clamps a hand down on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll leave soon, ok? And we’ll find her.”

“Ok.” 

Nodding, Sam heads toward the house, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts. 

He knows that this is a good place. And despite the demon’s appearance, he feels safe here. He would never admit this to Sam, but there have been times in the last four days that he’s thought it might be best just to stay here, to hole up and hide, licking his wounds over and over until even the scars don't exit.

Sam could go back to school, maybe make a go of it with Jocelyn. And he . . . well, maybe he could get a job; a real job. One where there would never be any danger of pissing off a demon so badly that it would wear his baby brother’s face to assault him. 

But these thoughts ambush him only rarely, and they always go just as quickly as they came.   
Mostly he knows that he’s got a whole lot of work to do and that he needs to get his ass in gear. Because no demon is ever hurting him again. Ever. 

Laughter erupting from the house behind him catches his attention and he can’t help but smile. 

Yeah, he’s got a whole lot of work to do. 

But it can wait a few days. 

Then with a soft sigh, he stares out at the green grass below him and the blue sky above him before closing his eyes to the fading sun.


End file.
